black plague pumpkins
by fiendies
Summary: You and me and the red apple tree. —for zulu, formerly, chew, puff, indy; dark themes


**black plague pumpkins**  
>you and me and the red apple tree<p>

(for zulu, formerly, chew, puff, indy)

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winter

Winter is always the worst, when the ground is cold and hard and the pond is frozen over and all the birds have flown far, far south to escape the chill. Sometimes you wish you could fly far, far south to escape the chill. Then you might be happy (then you might have a tan). But instead you are stuck on your little farm, digging up potatoes and yams and pale winter carrots.

Carrots are overrated, you think to yourself as you walk back to the little house with the yellow paintjob and white trim. You have a basket filled with root vegetables.

When you walk in, your umbreon looks up from his place by the hearth, where embers are dying and a pot of soup is growing cold. When he sees it is just his master, he settles his head back on his paws, old and weary.

You heave a sigh and rock on you heels, dumping your potatoes and yams and pale winter carrots onto the tabletop. You have fish from this morning's market. You could make chips and fry the fillets and that would be nice for dinner.

"It's freezing in here," you announce to no on in particular.

Your umbreon grunts from the floor.

"I agree. We should totally go over to El Chupacabra's," you say, nodding approvingly at your genius.

El Chupacabra's is the bar run by some pretty girl you can't remember the name of but she's pretty and her restaurant has pretty freaking awesome name and that's all the matters (actually, all the matters as that you can get a wicked awesome beef stew there and they have heating so yeah). You wrap your coat around you shoulders and whistle for your umbreon, who lurches to his feet even though he is getting older every second and his bones and joints don't like these temperatures one bit.

"It's only a short walk," you say to your umbreon.

At El Chupacabra's, you order a large stew and the pretty girl you can't remember the name of drops your umbreon chicken bones to chew on. For a minute, you forget that it's winter and that it's cold and you remember how to laugh.

The next day, the two of you go for a walk to chase off any of the fat, black birds that peck at your tulip bulbs. Your umbreon takes a break under the apple trees and doesn't wake up.

spring

In spring, you feel bad for the twins who live by the sea, so you go to help them bail out their little blue home on the sand. They're up to their knees in sunshine and water with silver buckets in their hands. They have a woven braid rug rolled up on top of the table.

"So the colors don't bleed," says the girl with a smile, opening the door so an extra eight inches of water can rush back to the ocean. "We're just glad our peach trees won't get ruined by the salt water."

They have water monsters, gulping up and spraying out arcs of sea through the windows, big beasts with thick hides and hard shells.

"Are you doing strawberries this year?" asks her twin, a boy with thin lips and sharp eyes. "Yours are always the best. We've decided to do mixed berries."

"Nah, strawberries all the way," you reply. They don't ask about your umbreon, which used to follow you everywhere and you are glad. "But I'm mostly looking forward to fall. For pumpkins."

"Why didn't we think about that?" cries the girl, fishing a pair of socks out of the water and tossing them into the sink. "Pumpkins! We'll buy some of yours, for pie! I love pie!"

The twin smiles, wide and bright, and he laughs. "Good thinking. We're doing squash, apples, cranberries…apple-cranberry pie, instead, I guess."

"That'll still be good," you say to the twins, dumping a pail of water out the window and taking a moment to watch their haphazard tangle of raspberry bushes, the raise of the peach trees on the cliff above. You don't tell them that your pumpkins aren't for pie at all. "I'll give you a discount."

"Actually? You're awesome!"

As you leave, the twins press an egg into your hands, with matching face-splitting grins and whispered 'you need it more than we dos.' They watch your back as you go because they knew the second they saw you, just because you never hated winter that much until now.

summer

During the summer, everyone crowds in El Chupacabra's for piña coladas and icy martinis because even by the sea, it gets very hot in the sun and people have to be careful to water their crops. You keep your egg with you, squished between your summer cherries and rhubarb for the market. It'll hatch soon – only a week or so left to go. The twins won't tell you what kind of egg it is when you ask, they just throw their arms into the air and laugh.

"What'cha got there?" asks Indy from the east valley farms. He's got a bouquet of flowers wrapped in silver paper and carefully stacked cartons of raspberries.

"An egg," you reply.

"No _way_," says Indy, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and taking a sip of strawberry daiquiri. "What kind is it?"

"Dunno," you tell him. "It was a gift."

"That's nice," says Indy vaguely. "Your rhubarb looks good. Maybe I'll buy some later today. What time are you opening up your stall? If I take too long, all your good stalks will be gone."

"At one," you say. "You should buy some of Chuck's corn though. It's fantastic."

"That's because she gets her jigglypuff to sing to it. And she sacrifices her golden dairy cows to appease the rain gods or something like that," replies Indy, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He slurps down the rest of his daiquiri and beams. "Well, I'll catch you later. I have to start prepping my cabbage and soy beans for fall. Catch you later?"

"Yeah," you mutter to his shoulder as he passes.

Everyone is preparing for autumn, you think, tapping your glass with your fingers. Because fall is monster season and if you can't protect your crops, then you're done for during the winter. Your pumpkins are ready. All they have to do now is grow.

autumn

"The twins are dead," says Pete, chewing contemplatively on an apple, red and glossy and definitely from the twins' orchard. "The sea monsters drowned them."

"_Their_ sea monsters?" you ask incredulously because you've met the twins' giant steroid turtles before and they were gentle and loyal.

"No," snorts Pete, tossing away the core. "The wild ones. Obviously. It's demon season. I'm reinforcing my vinegates and spraying all my crops with Pest-Aside. It turns the leaves yellow, but it keeps the monsters away for the most part."

"Uh-huh," you say, snapping together thick leaves of kale with rubber bands to sell. You already have baskets of cauliflower ready. The mightyena at your feet is no umbreon, but he does his job fine so you can't help but feel a little sad that the twins are gone and you can't help but remember the springs spent bailing out their house with the blue paint and colorful braided rug.

"What are you going to do about the season?" asks Pete, finally starting to dust dirt off of his potatoes for market.

"Pumpkins," you say, feeling a little bad because you promised the twins a discount on pumpkins.

Pete holds a large potato into the air and waves it around triumphantly. "I'm using these sexyfine potatoes here. They're going to be awesome. Those dumb monsters won't know what hit 'em."

"Yeah?" you murmur. "What's Chuck doing?"

Pete shrugs, then strokes his chin. "I'm not sure, but knowing her, it'll probably be surprising. I just hope she doesn't think she'll be able to get away with spiking garden salad with rattata poison again, even if it did work last year."

"Hm," you say because you're not really paying attention, you're thinking about your pumpkins and monsters and last winter.

Later, you shake hands with Pete and leave, shoulders hunched against the seaside breeze that curls through town. The temperatures are starting to drop and it's only a matter of time before the next attack. You pass El Chupacabra's pretty owner on your way back home and she says, "Hope you're ready."

"I am," you reply.

She nods, juggling jars of summer jam in her arms. "Good. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah," you tell her, wrapping your fingers around her wrist and saying, "Be careful, 'kay?"

"No worries," she chirps, shaking you off. "I've got a Blessed Scarecrow this year, and golden tomatoes from earlier in the season." She smiles. "Come by the bar anytime, alright? Bye now."

"Yeah," you mutter. "Bye."

You walk past your little yellow house with the yellow paintjob and white trim to the pumpkin patch. Your pumpkins are black and filled with the disease, but they don't die because you grew them that way. You check each one, patting them and testing their firmness and you are confident that any monsters that invade your farm are done for with these babies on your side.

When you're finished, you pat the soil on which your pumpkins grow and wonder if your umbreon's bones are still there.

**the end**

**notes: for my bros at the forum i frequent because they play tractor who. best farming/adventure/time-travel game known to man.  
>note's notes: sorry that the end is a little obscure. review? hugs &amp; kisses.<br>**


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